


These Things You Can't Forget

by Thistlerose



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Canon Jewish Character, Childhood, Collection: Purimgifts Day 1, Flashbacks, Gen, Purim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2013-02-20
Packaged: 2017-11-29 23:57:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/693003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thistlerose/pseuds/Thistlerose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik remembers very little about his childhood in Germany, and prefers it that way.  One memory, however, won't go away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Things You Can't Forget

**Author's Note:**

  * For [billtheradish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/billtheradish/gifts).



Erik remembers very little about his childhood in Germany. Oh, he could give you dates, places, and even names if you asked for them. A list of who did what, and with whom, and when. But there’s no context, no color. When he tries to remember – a rare thing these days, he knows what happened, what more does he need? – what he sees when he closes his eyes is a maelstrom of broken images, a cloud of shivered glass against a pitch black sky, fragments as sharp as the edge of a scalpel. 

(Charles could make sense of the chaos, Erik knows, if Erik were too let him. If he asked, Charles would do it. Help him. Try to fix him. Yes, even now.)

There is one memory that will not go away. Erik wishes that it would because he has no use for it. It can’t help him, or any of the other mutants who now follow him. There’s no point to it, none.

(Charles could make it go away, if he asked. If he _insisted_ , rather, for Charles would no doubt see the value in holding onto such a memory. _Keep it,_ Charles would say. _Treasure it. It’s part of you._ )

Like scar tissue, Erik thinks.

In the memory, he’s very young, perhaps no more than five or six. He’s standing on a chair, his stubby fingers curled around the top rail as he examines the silver cups and dishes in the breakfront cabinet. 

He’s always found metal fascinating. In his mind, the stuff is malleable as dough or soft wax. He could turn it into anything. It _wants_ for him to turn it into anything. At this young age, he’s sure of a lot of things, but that most of all. There’s a restlessness in every knife, every little sewing needle, every bronze reichspfennig, an _insistence._

And so it’s always a small shock when he touches it and nothing happens.

He can’t explain this to his parents. For one thing, he hasn’t the vocabulary yet. For another, he doesn’t think they’d understand. 

And that is all right, young Erik thinks as he gazes through the glass at a particularly graceful silver wine cup. He isn’t a freak or some sort of monster. He just finds metal … compelling. For all he knows, other people feel the same way about stone or wood. He doubts it – and there’s just a little bit of smugness in his doubt – but at the age of five or six, how can he really know?

While he stands there, focusing intently on the wine cup, his mother comes into the room. He doesn’t turn at her approach, but smiles when her warm, work-roughened hand touches the back of his head.

She follows his gaze, sees what’s captured his attention, and nods; he still doesn’t turn, but he can see her out of the corner of his eye. 

“That’s very old,” she says. Her breath is warm, and her clothes and hair smell faintly of onions; she’s been cooking. ( _Why_ must he remember this small detail?) “It belonged to your great-grandparents. That’s Queen Esther,” she continues, indicating one of the figures etched into the base of the cup: a woman in a long robe and a tall headdress. “And next to her is King Ahasuerus. See, right there, the one holding the scepter? Do you remember the story of Purim?”

“Uh-huh,” Erik replies, somewhat absently. He knows the story of the holiday, but it doesn’t interest him right now. Far more compelling is the story the cup itself has been whispering to him, through the glass. A tale of danger, of fire. He can almost taste the smoke. Shouts in the night, broken windows. A long journey over mountains, the wintry air sharp as knives. He doesn’t know what it means.

Then. He didn’t know, _then_ , what it meant. Now he does, and he tells himself that he doesn’t care. What’s done is done. What’s gone is gone. It’s a part of his past that he no longer needs, and if he could forget it all, he would. 

( _Would you, really?_ Charles’s nagging voice inquires, from across the years and miles that have sprung up between them. In Erik’s head, Charles poses the question as a teacher might, inviting discussion. Scrutiny.)

Shut up, Charles. Go away.

But nothing ever goes away, not really.


End file.
